Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  A soldier who had been hiding behind an abandoned cart ahead of them suddenly loomed up in front of Malcolm, and Artturi’s reflexes reacted instantly, slashing out with his sword. The legionnaire screamed, twisting and falling as Malcolm and Claire swept past him. A sudden, high-pitched wail erupted, and Malcolm looked over his shoulder, cursing again as he realized Claire was no longer with him. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d lost his grip on her hand. Malcolm turned to go back, then hesitated. The fallen legionnaire had had the presence of mind to grasp one of Claire’s ankles as they ran past him, dragging her to the ground, while the pursuing soldiers back down the alleyway drew closer to them by the moment. Malcolm could see more legionnaires behind those first five, and he knew with a sinking feeling that there were just too many of them for him to handle alone. Not even Artturi and his impressive skills would be enough to triumph over that many men. Malcolm stared at Claire for a heartbeat, letting her see the regret he felt in his eyes, then he turned and ran for his life.

  “I’ll get you back,” Malcolm promised the girl as he raced down the alleyway, doing his best not to slip in the ankle-deep excrement and refuse. He glanced over his shoulder to see Claire fighting like a wildcat as two of the Romans held her while the other three in the lead continued on with the pursuit. Malcolm finally reached the end of the alleyway and he turned right onto a cross street that led toward a bridge spanning a narrow waterway. He could feel a sudden, stabbing pain rise along his right side and he pressed his hand there, trying to force air into his tortured lungs as he ran.

  Malcolm reached the bridge and started across the cobbled surface, limping now, knowing that he couldn’t run much farther. Then he groaned in dismay. Legionnaires had just appeared at the far end of the bridge, moving in a determined, compact formation. Malcolm slowed, then finally stopped altogether as he leaned over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He watched from beneath the brim of his helmet as the Romans came on, looking confident that they had him trapped.

  The bridge was no more than ten feet wide and made of stone, supported by rounded arches that spanned a man-made canal that he guessed brought fresh water into the city. Eventually, Aquileia would have an extensive aqueduct system designed specifically for that purpose. But for now, it seemed the city planners had chosen to divert a portion of the river through the city.

  Malcolm moved to the side of the bridge to look down, guessing the drop to be at least sixty feet. He could see numerous fishing craft on the water, with many of the occupants shading their eyes and pointing up at him. Malcolm glanced at the oncoming Romans ahead and behind him once again, knowing he had no choice but to jump. None of the soldiers seemed to realize his intentions, or if they did, think he was crazy enough to do it as Malcolm took off the Roman helmet and cuirass, tossing them both aside. He considered leaving his sword behind as well, then changed his mind. The weapon would drag him down in the water, he knew, but having it might make all the difference later. He glanced over the side of the bridge again, ensuring none of the boats were directly below him, then leaped onto the short sidewall and balanced on top of it.

  “Hey!” one of the Roman’s behind Malcolm shouted in alarm.

  Malcolm could sense that Artturi was praying to his gods just as he stepped out into nothingness, dropping like a stone. He hit the water sooner than he’d expected, plunging downward until his feet came into contact with a hard surface. The canal was shallower than he’d hoped, but just deep enough to prevent any injury. Malcolm pushed upward with his legs, fighting the drag of his clothing and the sword before finally, he broke the surface, gasping for air. He swept his long hair from his eyes as the quick-flowing water started to whisk him away, then looked up at the twenty or so heads peering down over the bridge's wall at him in amazement.

  Malcolm shouted in defiance and lifted his middle finger to the men. The insult in Roman times was called digitus impudicus, or The Indecent Finger, and was meant more as a vulgar reverence to the penis, with the clenched finger to either side representing testicles, rather than the more modern, fuck you! At the moment, Malcolm didn’t care, laughing as he flipped the bastards the bird again before he started to swim. He noticed the banks to either side of him were steep and slick with mud, so he stayed in the center of the waterway, looking for a good place to get out. But as Malcolm drew closer to the fishing boats, many of the men onboard started shouting insults and throwing garbage or anything else they could find at him, making a game of it. Malcolm grunted as a rotted fish head slapped against his ear and slid off, then cursed as one of the bigger vessels changed direction, heading toward him. He could see men holding fishing nets leaning out over the railing along the prow, whooping with excitement as they drew closer.

  Malcolm changed directions, cutting through the water at an angle away from the boat, having no choice but to head for the closest shoreline despite the inhospitable bank. He reached shallower water, feeling solid ground beneath his feet once again as he dragged himself wearily onto the muddy shore and collapsed. He rolled on his back and lay still for a moment, gasping for air as the fishermen on the pursuing boat cursed at him, unable to come any closer as they shook their nets in frustration. Malcolm finally forced himself to his feet, pausing to give the men on the boat the same one-fingered salute he’d given the Romans. Then he turned and climbed, slipping and sliding his way up the steep bank before pausing at the top in dismay.

  “You don’t look happy to see me,” the centurion from the restaurant said, looking amused. The legionnaire was flanked by at least twenty men, all of whom had their spears pointed at Malcolm. The centurion grinned. “You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you, barbarian?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CLAIRE: Roman Camp, One Mile West of Aquileia

  “There really isn’t much point in resisting, child,” Consul Carbo said from somewhere behind Claire, sounding amused.

  Claire ignored him, fighting to free her hands. She whimpered softly over and over again, hating herself for showing any weakness in front of the bastard, but she couldn’t make herself stop. Claire stood in the center of Carbo’s tent, her arms stretched painfully above her head, held there by a rope tied to her wrists that hung from a thick pole spanning the ceiling of the tent’s interior. The wood above her looked well worn from the rope rubbing against it, which Claire knew could only mean one thing—she hadn’t been the first person to stand here like this.

  Carbo suddenly pressed his lips close to Claire’s ear, causing her to jump in surprise. “There’s no reason to be afraid, Marcella,” he whispered. His voice was flat and devoid of any emotion, and his breath smelled strongly of wine. Claire shuddered with revulsion, turning her face away, but Carbo just chuckled and grabbed her chin, twisting her head around cruelly to face him. Claire thought she was going to be sick at the look of naked desire on his face. “Why do you regard me so, child?” Carbo asked. He moved his hand upward, stroking her hair like a loving father. “Are you afraid that I intend to rape you? Is that what has you so frightened?”

  Claire could only stare at the Roman, her body trembling uncontrollably.

  “Well?” Carbo demanded, a hint of impatience in his eyes.

  Claire nodded, afraid of what he might do if she didn’t answer.

  “Ah, Marcella,” Carbo said with a disappointed sigh as he dropped his hand away. “I am hurt that you think so little of me as that. I promise you, raping a defenseless child is not my intention. I’m not a monster, after all.” He slowly grinned as he regarded her, though there was no humor in his eyes, only hardness and cruelty. “At least, not that kind of monster.” The Roman moved behind Claire as she twisted her body back and forth in vain, trying to keep him in her view. She cried out suddenly, feeling his unnaturally hot hand on her back, gently tracing the scars through her tattered dress. “It’s all right,” Carbo whispered as his fingers poked and prodded. “Make all the noise you want.” He chuckled again. “I assure you, my guards are used t
o it.”

  Claire felt Carbo’s hands on the neck of her dress, resting there for a heartbeat before, with effortless ease, he tore what was left of the thin cloth from her body. Claire closed her eyes, trembling, while behind her, Carbo sucked air in through his teeth as he took in her nakedness. Claire started to sob, knowing what was coming next despite what the bastard had promised as he began to run his fingers over her bare back almost reverently.

  “You truly are a remarkable creature, Marcella,” Carbo said. “Like a fine mural or sculpture done by a master. It’s no wonder Quintus is so enamored with you.” The Roman paused then, clicking his tongue as he thought before finally he moved in front of her, his eyes glowing with sudden cunning. “Speaking of my dear friend, is his wife well?” Claire just stared at him in confusion as the Consul chuckled and stroked her cheek, clearly not expecting an answer. “And what of her father, then? Is the Senator still up to his naughty ways in the Senate, do you think? Perhaps we can change that, you and I?” Carbo abruptly stepped away, leaving Claire hanging from the rope, naked and crying as he started to run his fingers over her back again. “You truly are beautiful, my dear,” he whispered. “But it’s not quite perfect, now is it, Marcella?” Carbo circled around Claire again, then lifted her chin to study her intently. “No, child, I fear there is still much work to be done with you.”

  Claire could only stare at Carbo with dread as he turned, moving to a polished desk that sat at the back of the tent. He returned moments later, holding a dark object in his hand. Claire started to moan, shaking her head in horror.

  “It’s called a flagrum,” Carbo explained, clearly savoring the look of fear on Claire’s face. He held the whip up for her to study. “Notice the superior workmanship on the handle, Marcella. A perfect fit for my hand, made especially for me by a dear friend.” Carbo gestured to the three lengths of rawhide dangling from the whip handle, each one about three feet long and knotted every few inches. “Normally, a flagrum has metal woven into the knots, designed to take chunks of flesh away with every stroke. But sadly, I find my enthusiasm sometimes gets the better of me and my subjects tend to die quite quickly if I use them.” Carbo winked at her. “And that tends to spoil the fun, wouldn’t you say?” The Roman laughed, enjoying his joke as he moved out of Claire’s vision. “Remember what I told you, Marcella,” Carbo said from behind her. “Scream if you must, for there is no need for modesty between us now. Besides, I must confess, I do prefer it that way.”

  Then the first strike landed across Claire’s back, ripping open her tender flesh with a hissing sound. She screamed, shocked at the excruciating pain, then kept on screaming as the flagrum rose and fell with dreadful precision, tearing at her body over and over again while Consul Carbo hummed to himself as he worked.

  Claire stood behind Consul Carbo, who sat on a carved oak chair as he awaited his guests. The Consul was in a jovial mood, even exchanging pleasantries with the ancient male slave who took care of his day-to-day needs. Claire knew that man’s name was Felix, and it had been his job to carefully clean and dress her wounds after Carbo had finished flogging her the day before. The Consul wanted Claire’s scars to be perfect, Felix had told her, a work of art, and he would be furious if the wounds became infected in any way.

  Claire closed her eyes, trying and failing to ignore the pain wracking her body as she stood where she’d been instructed with her hands supporting her on the high back of the chair. She was glad to be standing, actually, as just the thought of trying to sit on her torn and bruised buttocks made her feel queasy. Claire turned her mind to Malcolm to try and shut out the pain, wondering once again what had become of him after they became separated. Had he managed to escape, or had he been killed only to jump to another timeline? Claire felt a moment of jealousy at the thought that he might be free, then felt that jealousy turn to loneliness, missing Malcolm’s presence and sharp mind even more than she cared to admit.

  She looked up bleakly as a legionnaire appeared in the entrance to the tent. “The prisoner is ready, Consul,” the man said.

  “Ah,” Carbo grunted, looking pleased. He waved a hand. “Show him in, then.”

  The soldier bowed his head and left as Carbo glanced at Claire with a smirk on his face. “I believe you will find this quite interesting, Marcella.”

  Claire just stared blankly at the Roman until he turned away, only then allowing the hatred she felt for him show on her features. She saw Felix frown with disapproval from where he stood nearby and she felt a momentary pang of fear. Would the old slave tell on her? Claire shook the thought away as more legionnaires appeared in the entrance, dragging a man covered in filth across the ground. The man’s head was hanging limply, his long, muck-covered hair hiding his face as the soldier’s brought him closer, then dropped him at Carbo’s feet. The man lay still for a moment, then he groaned and pushed himself to his hands and knees as he looked up at Carbo. Claire felt her insides swirling with both dread and relief. It was Malcolm.

  “So,” Carbo said, bracing his elbows on the sides of his chair as he pressed the splayed-out fingers of both hands together. “We meet again, Artturi of the Cimbri.”

  Malcolm looked at Claire, ignoring Carbo completely. “Are you all right?” he managed to ask around a cracked and swollen bottom lip.

  Claire could only nod as tears started to roll unheeded down her cheeks at the look of concern on Malcolm’s bruised face.

  “A touching moment, to say the least,” Carbo said, his features hard and cruel. He glanced toward one of the soldiers, who Claire realized was the centurion from the restaurant. “Valerius, is this any way to treat a valued guest? Please help Artturi to his feet and bring him a stool so that we might talk like civilized men.”

  The centurion nodded, motioning two of his men to lift Malcolm as he went to fetch a stool. Once Malcolm was seated, the legionnaires backed away, leaving Malcolm and Carbo staring at each other in silence.

  “Whatever you want from me, I’m not going to do it,” Malcolm finally said.

  Carbo chuckled, then he shrugged. “I don’t think you’ll have a choice in that, I’m afraid.” The Consul wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from Malcolm. “Perhaps not so close,” Carbo said, motioning to the soldiers to move the prisoner away. “It would seem our friend has not bathed in some time.”

  “Probably never,” Valerius grunted as he and another man dragged Malcolm and the stool back six feet.

  “What do you hope to accomplish?” Malcolm asked once the soldiers stepped away, clearly surprising Carbo with the abrupt question. “You’re going to get impeached the moment you enter Rome. Everyone knows that.”

  “I must say, I’m impressed,” Carbo said. “I would have thought the concept of impeachment to be beyond the scope of a simple barbarian like you to understand.”

  “I understand more than you could ever guess,” Malcolm growled. He glanced at Claire again. “If you’ve hurt her in any way, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Carbo demanded, leaning forward as he cut Malcolm off. “You’re in no position to make threats.” The Roman slowly sat back in his chair. “That is something you’d best understand right now, Artturi of the Cimbri. Talk to me like that again, and I’ll have my men cut out your tongue. You won’t need it for what I have in mind for you, so don’t tempt me. Do I make myself understood?” Malcolm nodded reluctantly, though Claire could see the anger seething in his eyes. She knew exactly how he felt. “I brought you here so that you could fully understand the hopelessness of your situation,” Carbo continued. He gestured behind him. “It’s clear to me by the way you look at this girl that she means something to you. Which pleases me, as I have uses for you both.” He smirked. “Different uses, mind you.” Carbo glanced at Felix. “Now that I’ve seen the barbarian, I think it’s time to bring in our other guest.”

  “Yes, Consul,” Felix said. The slave left, returning within moments, followed by Quintus Barbii.

  The trader hesitated in the entrance, his mou
th hanging open in surprise when he saw Claire. Finally, he cleared his throat, walking forward uncertainly, his face filled with caution. Barbii spread his arms. “Gnaeus, where did you find my slave? She ran away weeks ago.”

  “All in good time, Quintus,” Carbo said, lifting a hand. A soldier drew another stool forward unbidden, setting it some distance apart from Malcolm. “Please, sit, my old friend,” Carbo said. “There are things that I wish to speak with you about.”

  Quintus sat down, looking around in confusion. His eyes rested on Malcolm for a moment and he frowned before turning back to Carbo. “I was told you wished to see me and that it was urgent.”

  “It is,” Carbo said. He clapped his hands. “But not so urgent that it can’t wait until we’ve had some wine.” Two female slaves appeared with cups for both Carbo and Quintus, though Claire noticed they didn’t offer Malcolm any. Both the women had lash scars crisscrossing their flesh—even their faces—and Claire shuddered, knowing she was looking at her fate if she didn’t find a way to escape.

  Carbo took a long drink, smacking his lips afterward as he regarded the trader. “How long have we known each other, Quintus?”

  Quintus Barbii looked up at the ceiling before he shook his head. “A long time, Gnaeus. We were both eighteen when we joined the legions, I believe. Though I don’t see what that has to do with my being here, nor why you have my slave with you.”

  Carbo set his cup on the arm of his chair, spinning it around absently as he thought. “That’s a long time to remain friends,” he finally said. “We were inseparable once, Quintus, remember? You, me, and Titus.” He shook his head sadly. “But everything changes, eh?”

  “Gnaeus,” the trader said, looking uncomfortable. “Why did you summon me here?”